


In Which We May Find Some Semblance of Relief

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: A long-awaited reunion, somewhere after death.





	In Which We May Find Some Semblance of Relief

The first thing Ishmael sees after he dies is sky.   
  
It's that transparent blue color of early morning, clouds bathed in soft orange and red. There's a dizziness, a ringing in his ears, as he tries to focus - the concepts of _cloud, sun, sky, ship, sea, heaven_ keep dancing out of reach of his comprehension. It takes him a while to understand that he is lying down on something hard. Longer to hear the creaking, rocking, splashing. The ringing subsides slightly as his mind adjusts.   
He jolts up and a wave of sound, sight, experience washes over him - he is on a ship, no, he is on the _Pequod_ , the _Rachel_ , all the ships that came after.   
He doesn't remember the act of standing up, but suddenly there he is, on the deck of _something_ , disoriented and dizzy and _where am I where am I where is he_   
His mind reels as familiar faces and voices edge in and out of his thoughts. Captains and sailors and students and whalers, people he knew lifetimes ago, a curtain call of faces and names and places. _Something's wrong_ , he thinks in the chaos, _I'm not ready I shouldn't be here not yet, I can't see you yet, I'm not ready, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, where is he I need_   
He takes a step forward and promptly falls, face first, into something soft, wet, grainy.   
  
He is standing ankle-deep in clear, cool water, on a beach he does not recognize. Lazy clouds drift languidly overhead and somewhere in the distance is the smell of wood smoke. Palm trees, bent over as if in prayer, pepper the sand, their fronds draping  into the gentle waves.   
The world seems to solidify around Ishmael for the first time since he opened his eyes. His mind eases as the waves push and pull and push.     
And then, of course, there he is.   
  
It takes everything inside Ishmael not to break down when he sees him. His back is turned; he leans against one of the praying trees and watches the clouds sail on by.   
Ishmael steps, stumbles, runs forward, sand flying, closing the distance between them. Queequeg turns just in time to catch him as they collide, all arms and tears and smiles and years melting off into the sand. He feels his feet lift off the ground, feels Queequeg twirl him in the air and pull him tight and close.   
Ishmael is not sure how long they hold each other like that. Frankly, he's not sure time even exists, anymore. All he knows in that moment is warmth, soft skin, the smell of him, the feel of sand and water and wind and love.   
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting."   
They break apart ever so slightly; he sees warm coffee-brown eyes and terra-cotta cheeks, revels in that smile he'd almost forgotten how much he missed. He feels lips press against his forehead, words whispered against his skin.   
"I'm glad you took your time." Queequeg's eyes wander over Ishmael, studying him. "I like your tattoos." Ishmael chuckles; he laces their fingers together, notes the twin tattoos that encircle their wrists. He buries his head into Queequeg's chest.   
"I-- I'm sorry I never got to tell you--" he trips over his words now, stumbling over a thousand things he wished he could've said and has been trying to say since they last saw each other. His words roll clumsily off his tongue. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you. You saved my life - in more ways than you know -- i don't know what I can ever--"   
He is interrupted by a sudden burst of warmth, soft lips against his, a hand cupping his cheek, another running through his hair. He leans into the kiss, folds himself into Queequeg's arms, falls apart against him knowing he is safe, well and truly safe, for the first time since that fateful night in the Spouter Inn all those years and nightmares ago.   
Queequeg pulls back, running a thumb along Ishmael's jawline. He presses their foreheads together, a familiar gesture. "You talk too much."   
And then he kisses him again.


End file.
